


Sweat

by SylvanWitch



Series: Seasons [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer, and the last of the <i>Seasons</i> series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweat

It was like this once.

 

A sticky August night, the kind that causes automatic sweat to burst across his back in the heartbeat between motel room and car door.

 

Already sweaty, he slides into the passenger seat, hands loose between bent knees, head back against the seat.

 

Everything sticks, shirt, leather, door handle.

 

Dean slips in beside, starts the car, and it’s like there’s no firewall at all, like Sam’s chest is the engine, burning.

 

Even the moonlight fails to cool, pooling on the windshield, sliding away like neon lights as they pull out of the parking lot and head for the graveyard.

 

“It’s too hot to be doing this shit,” Dean remarks, but without really meaning it.  He knows as well as Sam that if they don’t dig up Susanna Johnson right now, they might not get another chance.  She was a bossy bitch in life; death hasn’t made her more agreeable.

 

Sam lets his eyes close.  He’s bone-weary.  Too many jobs like this lately.  Too much heat.

 

As they turn down the dirt road that leads to the old cemetery, the cicadas send their churring song into the sky, rising, rising even as the engine purrs to a halt.  He wants to scream at them to be quiet.  How can anyone think against all that noise?

 

He shoulders his shovel without a word, Dean falls in beside him likewise armed, and they find the grave fairly soon, a boon, since it’s too fucking hot to be stumbling around in the dark.

 

The ground should be cooler the deeper they dig, but he’s sweating so hard, heat spooling down his back, soaking his waistband, that Sam’s pretty damned sure he’s going to die.

 

Dean leaves off to get some water from the cooler they keep on hand— _Be stupid to die of dehydration_ , Dean notes, and Sam thinks at least it’d be convenient, what with the half-dug grave all ready for him.

 

Stretching out against the damp clay they’re kicking up now doesn’t sound so bad to him.

 

His eyes sting, no matter how many times he wipes his face over the shirt at his shoulder.  The fabric is filthy with dirt and slick with sweat; there’s no comfort there at all, and his eyes sting more for the rubbing.

 

“This sucks,” Dean observes, tossing the last spade-full out of the deep grave, using its sharp edge like an axe to break open the ancient casket.

 

Bundles of leathery bones greet his eyes, and Sam spares a thought for when this started to seem like a Halloween thing, like maybe something you’d buy at a party store instead of the sobering remains of a dead woman who haunts those who live in her old house.

 

“You with me?” Dean asks, and Sam looks down into the grave to see Dean holding up the spade, impatiently.  He wants the salt, Sam knows.  He likes to be down with the dead when he salts them.

 

Sam takes the shovel and hands his brother the canister, wordless still.

 

It’s only after, when flames are licking toward their boots and Dean’s face is lit from below like he’s standing over infernal fire, that Dean says, “What crawled up your ass and died, Sam?”

 

Sam wants to shrug, knows it’s dumb.  He’s not some kid anymore.  He should tell Dean what he’s thinking.

 

Instead, he lets the shovel handle sigh to the side, listing in the pile of grave-dirt.  Dean has a second to look surprised before Sam’s wrapping huge hands around his face, pulling his brother up for a kiss that tastes of salt and sweat and burning bones.

 

Sam’s tongue laps at Dean’s lower lip, and Dean releases his breath with a sigh and opens for him.

 

He delves deeply, seeking something, suddenly sure that whatever this is between them, it’s got to be better than the empty he’s been.

 

When Dean moans into his mouth and moves closer, Sam knows he’s found what might pass for peace.

 

Dean’s hands tighten on Sam’s waist, pressing slippery tee-shirt against sensitive skin too hot for holding, and Sam murmurs something into his brother’s mouth that might be, “Yes.”

 

When they break apart, they’re both breathing like they’ve just run a terrifying mile, and Sam wonders if this is the moment Dean decks him and heads for the West without him.

 

Instead, Dean reaches a hand up to rub away a smudge of dirt on Sam’s sweaty cheek.  He smiles, white teeth luminous in the moonlight, which spills over the planes of Dean’s face like the moon has given up divinity to worship mortal flesh.  Sam has to hold his breath to keep from saying, “Beautiful.”

 

“You want something, little brother?” Dean asks, and it’s as though Sam was never anything else to Dean but what he must be in that moment:  a meal to satisfy Dean’s ravenous hunger, written across his face from feral grin to eyes half-hooded. 

 

Sam wants to be smooth here, wants to say, “You,” and sound like Dean does when he’s wooing some wannabe rock star as an R&D talent scout.

 

Instead, he simply sighs, going boneless, sinking to his knees in the soft earth churned up from their digging.

 

He’s closer to the fire here, but the heat is nothing compared to what sears his face as he rubs it against the denim at Dean’s crotch.

 

“Sammy,” Dean breathes, half-bent over Sam, fingers curling in his hair, holding on.  When Sam’s clever hands move to open Dean’s fly, the latter can do nothing but breathe, chest heaving so hard Sam can feel it.

 

He wraps a hand around one of Dean’s strong thighs, presses his face against the cotton boxers he’s revealed, and waits for his brother to calm himself.

 

When Dean’s breathing is more or less even, Sam wets his lips and mouths his brother’s hard member through the fabric, limning the hard outline from base to tip until the cotton is wet with the imprint of his tongue and Dean is breathing hard again, hands gripping more tightly, guiding.

 

Sam frees Dean just enough to lave the shaft, to slide his tongue down the underside and into that delicate crease between his brother’s balls.  It’s musky here, heady with sweat and denim and something indefinably Dean, and Sam wants to stay forever just there, balanced on the axis of concupiscence and consummation.

 

Dean says, “Sam,” and there’s something like pleading in his voice, something uncharacteristic of his older brother.  Sam slides his eyes upwards, awkward at the angle but needing to see.  Dean’s eyes are wide, white with wildness at the edges, and Sam sees what his brother is thinking the moment before he says, “We can’t.”

 

Sam answers by swallowing the head of his brother’s shaft, suckling enough to drown out the cicadas whose rhythms have been uninterrupted. 

 

Whatever else Dean might have said is drown out then by his low moan, which ghosts across the graveyard, one more lonely noise from among the dead.

 

Dean is heavy against Sam’s tongue and bitter, but he hollows his mouth and lets him slide deeper, wrapping a hand around the hot shaft left exposed to the humid night air.

 

The thigh Sam’s wrapped around shudders, and Sam braces his brother, keeping him upright.  He lets his tongue writhe around the filling weight of Dean, feels the twitch as his brother tries to hold out, feels Dean’s hands tighten in warning on his hair, and says, “Please,” just as the hot pulse of his brother’s seed fills his mouth and throat.

 

He swallows every last ounce, and when he’s sure that Dean is done, he eases his mouth away even as he lets Dean lower himself shakily to the ground and arrange himself again.

 

Sam sits back on his heels and watches Dean’s face go through the motions of regret, remorse, remembering, waits until it settles on revision, and then says, “I want you to fuck me over the hood, all that hot metal against my naked belly, your hand hard around my cock.”

 

Dean’s eyes fly wide, expression shifting helplessly to want.

 

It’s the first thing Sam’s said besides “Please” since they left the motel.

 

“Better fill this up, first,” Dean says, nodding at the open grave and letting innuendo put a leer on his face.

 

They don’t talk again till they get to the car, and after that, it’s mostly words no one else should hear, anyway.

 


End file.
